Silver Threads
by Sandshrew777
Summary: A catalyst speeds up a reaction. The reaction to this human catalyst sped up the winning of the war. Takes place during the summer before 7th year. Now AU.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for my own ideas.**

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We all had our defining moments during our years at Hogwarts. Underneath the roaring crimson and goldenrod banner that hung above the fireplace emulating those colors lay the metaphorical heart of the lion that dwelled in all of its pupils, a heart that beat firmly in each of us, spurring us on to live out its defining characteristics. Indeed, each of us had a role, a niche, a job to perform whilst studying beneath its expanded atriums and outside its life-giving ventricles.

Harry led the charge. It was as if he was destined, some of us noted in our more reflective moments, to remain in the spotlight. From his first birthday on to his dying day-to-come, Harry would and will always be known for his ability to lead. What was more impressive was his uneagerness to do so; a humble Harry walked into the Hog's Head still doubting his talents, his words, and his own drive to keep such a group going. When he exited, the Gryffindor heart beat proudly within his chest, even if Harry himself was still not so proud as to display it.

He soon became the posterboy for the Second War, the light around which the Wizarding World gathered and wished to never see extinguished. I, however, will always remember Harry as the young boy, awkward teenager, and brooding man that preferred the squishiest armchair in the Commons, nearest to the fire. Unknowingly, Harry wished for comfort and luxury in the place he frequently called his home, perhaps to thwart the darkness within his own soul that denied him true happiness so often.

Ron directed the charge. Of all of us, Ron was the one most likely to be unnoticed based on his raw talent, which was staggeringly minimal when he first arrived. The youngest Weasley boy was no archmage, no physical brute, no intelligent wonder...not much of anything, really. In fact, the only reason Ron became who he became was because of Harry. As much as all of us feared Ron's jealousy would be his fatal undoing, it was in fact his greatest strength. That drive to be a real benefit to his best friend pushed Ron to discover a whole side of him that he perhaps would have never found otherwise.

In the tumult that led up to the Final Battle, Ron orchestrated every action the Light undertook. After talking over his plans with his fellow acolytes, the youngest Weasley man proved to be the clearest head off the battlefield, seeing what others could not see (most like his first girlfriend) and leading his team to victory. He could have been ruthless in examining the pure numbers and necessary sacrifices involved. He could have lost his mind when he analyzed the losses. He could have been so many things, but instead Ron chose the path that suited his heart, and in the end it profited him more than mere money ever could.

Hermione understood the charge. No soul could ever deny that Hermione was the antithesis of Ron in every way but one when we arrived: he was lazy, she was hard-working; he was thoughtless, she was thoughtful; he was untruthful about his feelings, she let them show; he was talentless, she was talented. She had all the potential to become the know-it-all that she knew she was, and embraced it full on while she labored within the stone walls that became her sanctuary. What differentiated her from the headstrong, opinionated, and perhaps ignorant woman she could have become was the very thing she shared with her opposite: her stubborn, caring, Gryffindor heart.

Nobody figured out what to do better than Hermione, an intimidating feat when all were at a loss for what to do without Dumbledore. She pointed out the way for her friends, and they did the rest. In fact, Hermione almost never made it to the battlefield when the time came. Paralyzed by fear and inaction, she chose to remain where it was safe, aiding those who were admitted as wounded. Only when she saw an innocent Gryffindor youth perish from his outstanding wounds did she join the battle, wand in hand, and mature into the terror that the Dark perceived that day. Slinging spells with a calculated fury from afar, she worked to her greatest advantage both defensively and offensively, demonstrating the immense sagacity that she had portrayed in her classes.

Neville challenged the charge. Arriving at Hogwarts more insecure than Ron and more disadvantaged than Harry, Neville had the most to prove of all of us. His willingness to adapt made Neville a prime candidate for conformity, yet Neville time and time again proved to us all that he would remain unique despite what his peers thought. Perhaps it was aloofness that enabled him to fail to comprehend his social ineptitude. Whatever it was, he endured everyone's---including our own---taunts and ridicule with a hearty strength unseen and often unnoticed.

There are few instances where any of us could honestly say that Neville shone. There were Herbology classes, of course, where Professor Sprout kindly doted upon the poor, bumbling gardening savant, and the time when he stood up to Harry, Ron, and Hermione when they went to save the Sorcerer's Stone. A full two weeks before the final stand, however, is a day that all who knew Neville remembered because of his amazing candor. Restless and eager to repartee Voldemort's latest assaults on Diagon Alley, Harry pressured Ron and Hermione into drawing up plans for what he would later admit was a suicidal manuever. Only Neville stood up to Harry at the Order meeting, proclaiming his testy, overhasty response was exactly what Voldemort wanted (but perhaps not with those exact words). Eventually, after hours of arguing, each member of the Order succumbed to Neville's wisdom, and thus he garnered a respectable notation in the history books for his bravery when dealing with his associates.

Seamus announced the charge. The most overlooked and perhaps most stereotyped of the Gryffindor Eight, as we were later called, the Irish partyboy with a penchant for any magic that involved serious flameage seemed like he belonged on the Muggle drug ritalin. In his early years, he was more hyperactive than the Creevey brothers put together, and more emotive than all of us combined. Wearing one's heart on one's sleeve might be a dangerous risk according to a Slytherin or even a Ravenclaw, but Seamus never once had that fear. Every one of us knew what Seamus was thinking---and usually it was about some bird's erogenous zones---without even having to give much of an effort.

It was this seemingly flawed portion of Seamus' personality that allowed us the leg-up we needed to get through the war. His constant peppiness and jocular attitude seemed belligerent and foolish to those who did not know Seamus very well, but in reality Seamus knew exactly what he was doing. By constantly challenging, taunting, and mocking Voldemort's forces both on the battlefield and in the newspapers, Seamus effectively goaded his opponents into emulating his own "downfall" of wearing their hearts on their sleeves, forcing them to surrender to their own emotions and make their own, sometimes fatal, mistakes. To Seamus, acting on instinct and being intensely passionate was an everyday routine, and as such the experience he had accumulated with this behavior allowed him to take advantage of his enemies and swing many battles the Light's way.

Lavender saw the charge. Hogwarts' student body only took notice of Lavender when she began the famous Dating Wars of our fifth year. Her relationship with Ron Weasley sickened all of us (even Lavender herself, as she later lightheartedly admitted), but her petty actions were the catalyst for the astoundingly tense social atmosphere that reigned that year, excepting the bruit between Harry and Seamus as a result of the Daily Prophet's desperate, Fudge-led propaganda. We never had the guts to ask her if she had foreseen the circumstances that would result due to her actions.

Despite the disbelief Hermione and many of us had in the mystical arts of Divination, Lavender's faith was unshakeable, especially when she learned that Professor Trelawney had delivered the Prophecy regarding Harry and Lord Voldemort's fates. Her blind faith paid off; early on in the war, Lavender successfully predicted the demise of Ronan the centaur in the Forbidden Forest. Discovered by Hagrid, Ronan had been poisoned by a mixture of silver and his own blood; the exact fate Lavender had dealt in her Tarot cards the morning before the incident. Shortly after learning of her success from Hermione herself, Lavender collapsed into a tearful dirge for the centaur; her heart knew no bounds. None of us ever doubted Lavender's "visions" again, and, because of her, several Death Eater ambushes on popular families of the Light were foiled.

Parvati sponsored the charge. As a girl and later quite the formidable fashionista, few would ever say that Parvati was remarkable. Her sister, Padma, now she was the remarkable one. All the same beautiful looks, but with a brain to match! Who would ever look poor Parvati's way? All she had going for her was a stout, brave heart pumping with the blood of a Gryffindor...but what merit was that? Those with intelligence got high-paying Ministry jobs; those with hard-working Hufflepuff values persevered and were happy in whatever field they chose; those who chose to use their wiles and resources in the most self-serving way possible rarely failed to prosper in society. What good, Parvati confessed to us, once, was the heart of a Gryffindor?

In the end, I think Godric would have been proud of what this unsure young woman became. When Voldemort and his followers wisely initiated their assault on the economic resources of the Wizarding World, the chokehold threatened to seriously impede the Light's efforts to withstand long-term combat. Parvati, however, understood exactly what to do. She provided the Order of the Phoenix with an alternative method to attempting to make it through the endangered streets of London and Diagon Alley; her many accounts and connections with fashion designers, analysts, and corporations allowed her to funnel orders and goods through them. Disguised expertly as purchases and sales of last season's garments by a fashion-obsessed, spoiled teenage girl that had been taking place for years, the members of the Dark forces watching the Wizarding economy failed to notice what was right underneath their noses.

I inspired the charge. Of the Gryffindor Eight, I was the one who had failed to have a significant impact upon the lives of the Trio, and as such went unnoticed by those who would focus on those who interacted with them. Known merely for my artistic skills and identified only by the color of my skills, I did not impress any professors with my educational performance, simply maintaining average grades and an average demeanor. Generally, I was the all-around good guy who remained virtually unnoticed until about my sixth year.

During that year, I maintained a teeter-totter relationship with Ron's sister, Ginny. She was a sweet, yet extremely hot-tempered young woman who deserved much better than some run-of-the-mill guy like myself; she, of course, got all that and more in the form of one Harry Potter with a side of melodrama to boot. After that quick blip on the radar, as the Muggles would say, however, I vanished to the background again. That's not to say that I wasn't interacting with my year-mates, though; we frequently hung out together, talked, exchanged homework every now and then, et cetera. Even though Harry, Ron, and Hermione drifted away from us as the days went on, we nevertheless endured as eight friendly acquaintances, nigh friends.

The label of 'acquaintance' only lifted on a hot August day, a few weeks before we were slated to begin our seventh year at Hogwarts. We all knew from correspondence with each other that Harry, Ron, and Hermione were unlikely to be regular attendees at Hogwarts that year for reasons we did not probe for nor would have understood, but we were all going back (even Parvati, whose parents were originally against their daughters' decision to wade knee-deep into war-ridden territory) to, more or less, do our best on what we considered the 'home front'. After all, Hogwarts---and Gryffindor Tower---had been a home to us for so long that we were reluctant to leave it. As such, I ventured into the alleys of Hogsmeade, before the series of attacks rendered it completely incapable of catering to the Wizarding community, to purchase my seventh year materials.

After buying my final Potions ingredients, I stepped out onto the street, bags in hand, and was faced with what seemed an innocuous choice: stop at the newly instated Ice Cream Parlor for a quick, chilly treat, or catch the Floo in the Three Broomsticks and head home? Fatefully, I chose ice cream and ordered my final meal of a banana split with extra chocolate sauce and finely chopped walnuts. As I sat down to consume this algid wonder, several whooshing noises battered my eardrums as the images of dark figures assaulted my eyes. Pulling my wand from my robes after an instant of shock and surprise, I immediately remembered Harry's training and conjured my Patronus: a lynx, which I had mistaken for a simple cat until Hermione had corrected me.

Dementors, however, were the least of my worries; they were further down the street, attacking the more populous and acclaimed boutiques. Nearer to my end, the Death Eaters had chosen to spawn, cutting off the escape routes of the panicked chickens that became of the shoppers. Realizing the threat, I quickly Charmed the nearby rubbish bins to repeatedly batter the three Death Eaters near me.

Unfortunately, the Death Eaters weren't as stupid as I would have liked. They immediately spotted me and three Killing Curses came my way. I managed to dodge them by conjuring a large dinner platter to take the simultaneous barrage of curses, and returned fire with my own Stunning Spell. I managed to get off four Stunners before I was forced to dodge again, and not having time to magically counter the Killing Curse with an obstruction, was forced to physically dodge the spell, throwing myself to the ground. Naturally, my wand went flying, and I swiftly scrabbled after it, grabbing it quickly and scrambling to my feet.

I needn't have bothered. As soon as I raised my head and my wand to cast another curse at the trio of black-cloaked fiends, the green light caught me square-on, and my life ended.

My death, as swift as it may have been, had cataclysmic results that, no doubt, those Death Eaters never could have imagined. The Hogsmeade Slaughter victims became martyrs, the inspiration that the Light and those who were on the fence needed to fight back with endless abandon.

To the remaining members of the Gryffindor Eight, I was their personal reminder of what war meant: the loss of those close to one's heart, a sacrifice willing to be paid in order to purport the greater good. All of them have visited me and told me what my death meant to them. I could not have been more honored to have earned such a place in their hearts (and, incidentally, in the history books).

I will fade from memory, and from Earth itself, only when I am no longer needed. Until then, I will continue to do as I have done since my passing: to inspire both the old who knew me and the young who grew up with the stories of my friends inundated within their little minds.

My name is Dean Thomas, and I teach History of Magic at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.


End file.
